


If You Give a Leonardo a Coffee...

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: (Almost) Everyone Hates Cesare, Coffee-Induced Science, Crack, Everyone hates Salai, Except Leonardo, Ezio Being Ezio, I Don't Even Know, La Volpe Being Crazy Awesome, Leonardo is a genius, Leonardo is also awesome, Mad Science, Multi, Prompt Fill, Rosa Being Badass, The Author Regrets Nothing, and yet..., but it's still awesome, coffee is also awesome, coffee is evil, coffee may doom the world, everyone is awesome, no seriously, the plot bunnies made me do it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonardo da Vinci is known, far and wide, for many things.  Inventor, genius, artist, paragon of human potential, worthy ally, cherished friend, and all around nicest guy you'll ever meet.  All in all, he's just about the last person one would expect to be the harbinger of madness and destructive doom.  Then Antonio had to go and invent madness in a cup.</p>
<p>Well, there goes the neighborhood... and the city... and the world...</p>
<p>Damn it Antonio.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>(Fill for Prompt:</em><br/>The thieves of Venice have discovered a simple way of getting interesting weapons and fortifications.<br/>Step 1: Fill a room with various materials and tools.<br/>Step 2: Bribe/convince/kidnap Leonardo into coming over.<br/>Step 3: Get the artist to overdose on the strongest version of Antonio's café they can find.<br/>Step 4: Run for cover.<br/>Step 5: Terrify the city guards with the new defenses/weapons while Leonardo sleeps off the caffeine crash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...
> 
> No, seriously, what even is this? I don't have time for this! I didn't even have time for this when it grabbed me by the throat and dragged me kicking and screaming to Word to write this when I first saw it... seven+ months ago! And I have even _less_ time for this now that I'm coming off an unplanned seven+ month hiatus! I should not be giving myself over to this fresh hell of madness! *shakes fist at the unforgiving sky* **Curse you OP!**
> 
> ...
> 
> Aw what the hell, I can't even pretend. I adore you OP; you and your beautiful brain for first crafting this prompt. :)
> 
> In summary... or, rather, to actually say something that has _a point_... started this one a while back on the Assassin's Creed meme, de-anoning, posting here now that I'm finally starting to write again, hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

The first time it happened, no one saw it coming.

Ezio had merely been stopping by his friend’s workshop after a long day of ~~stabbing people, shamelessly flirting with and being slapped by pretty courtesans, and tripping and falling off various tall buildings~~ fighting the forces of tyranny, winning the hearts of the city’s most beautiful maidens, and soaring over rooftops with poetic grace. After such a long day of being so devastatingly heroic and good-looking, the assasiano had been looking forward to the warm smiles and pleasant company of his dear friend.

To his great surprise, he had not been greeted with aforementioned warm smiles and pleasant company, but to an utterly silent workshop that looked as though it had been struck by a lost tornado after being ransacked by a horde of angry bulls and drunken Uncle Marios.

For a moment, Ezio was frozen on the windowsill, a cold sickness welling in the pit of his stomach. Then, suddenly, his keen eyes caught a flicker of movement in one corner of the workshop, and he soared across the room. In seconds he reached what appeared to be a hastily constructed bulwark of a three-legged table, two broken chairs of different size, and a tarp, and hastily flung the shoddy fortification apart.

And promptly slapped his hands to his ears at the sharp, high-pitched, and womanly shriek of Leonardo’s annoying assistant.

Salaì managed to scoot even further back into the corner, clutching a rolling-pin to his chest like a little girl using her precious doll as a shield, staring up with wildly terrified eyes and letting out a series of staccato shrieks that rent Ezio’s ears like rending-things.

Growling in pain and annoyance, Ezio reminded himself that Leonardo – for some reason _no one_ could fathom – liked Salaì. And so, fighting the nigh-overwhelming urge to stop the shrieking with his good friend Signore Hidden-Blade, Ezio reached out a gentle hand to calm the hysterical man.

After gently caressing Salaì several times with the most calming side of his hands – the knuckle-and-ring side – the shrieking finally stopped.  
That accomplished, Ezio took the younger man – now mumbling hysterically about whether “it was over?” – in his most tender of holds, and gave him the lightest of shakes to draw his attention. Attention gained, Ezio inquired – most politely, if emphatically – just what in the seven circles of hell had happened, where the devil was Leonardo, and did Salaì want to give a straight answer before Ezio ran out of patience fed him his own extremities?

Sadly, Salaì was too ill-mannered to fully return Ezio’s overwhelming graciousness as it deserved. He did, however, manage to point a shaky hand towards the back room of Leonardo’s workshop before dissolving into another fit of hysterical weeping. 

Deciding to waste no more time, Ezio dropped the whelp like a courtesan’s unmentionables and dashed to the back room.

The back of the workshop was in an even worse state than the front. Furniture was overturned, the floor was littered with shards of wood and pottery and scraps of canvas, paint was splattered hither and yon like so many bodily fluids after a bar brawl, and there was an unmarred chair standing on all four legs in the perfect center of the ceiling. 

And there, off to one side of the room, was Leonardo da Vinci himself, sprawled over an upside-down table, face down in a puddle of drool, oblivious to all around him.

Slowly, Ezio approached his friend’s slumbering form. Once reached, he paused for a moment, before slowly stretching out a leg and prodding Leonardo with a gentle foot. 

Leonardo twitched, snorted, and rolled over, now snoring like a thunderstorm.

Satisfied that his friend was breathing, Ezio turned to stare at the room in bewilderment. Leonardo was hardly the neatest of people, true, and he was certainly prone- as are all geniuses – to moments of strangeness, but this…? After a long moment of contemplation, it suddenly struck Ezio that the destruction seemed to radiate out from a single point across the room. Carefully picking his way through the wreckage, he made his way to the epicenter of chaos. 

It was, remarkably, the one section of the entire workshop that appeared pristine. A small table, upon which were a series of neatly organized tools, a strange shape covered by a clean cloth, and a small empty cup.

Casting a wary eye at the mysterious covered object, Ezio reached for the cup, bringing it to his face and taking a careful sniff. The lingering aroma was strangely familiar, and he wracked his brain to place it.

Suddenly, it rushed back to him. Five days ago, the Thieves’ headquarters, and a strange new drink in a small cup.

Antonio had called it “esprianisimo,” though he admitted the name was a work in progress. Laughing off the warnings given by the thieves, Ezio had downed the cup in one gulp, and then… Honestly, things became more than a little hazy after that point. Reportedly, he had stood perfectly still for a solid minute, then suddenly proclaimed that he could “see through time” and made for the nearest rooftop. Reportedly, he had also managed to strip down to his natural state, proclaimed himself King Of All Things Roofly And Stabby, composed seventeen less-than-favorable ballads about the Borgias – nine of which had become overnight sensations and were being sung in every drinking house for miles – assassinated a newly arrived and purportedly undefeatable Spanish Templar, claimed said corpsely Spanish Templar’s trousers as a stylish new hat, stole and distributed several hundred pounds of coins from the Borgias’ lackeys to the poor, and carved the words “Cesare Borgia smells” above the city gates.

All in under an hour.

Shuddered a little at the recollection – or lack thereof – Ezio glanced back at Leonardo’s slumbering form. Connecting what he knew of the Drink of Madness to his inventive friend, he almost felt bad for Salaì. Almost.

Setting the deceptively innocent cup back on the table, he turned his attention to the cloth-covered object. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a deep breath and pulled away the cloth. Beneath it was a strange, cylindrical, hollow metal object, roughly a meter long and half a meter in diameter. The metal was as thick as his thumb, creating a long tube wherein another metal cylinder – this one solid – rested. The contraption was mounted to some sort of frame, which included two handles, and a cradle which – upon testing – fitted the object almost perfectly against his shoulder.

Humming in interest, Ezio adjusted the object in his grip, turning towards the back wall of the workshop. A finger brushed over something on the back handle, and then…

Ezio found himself staring at the ceiling, ears ringing, dust clogging his throat, and feeling as though a team of horses had conspired to kick him in the same shoulder at the same time. Forcing himself into a seated position, he stared at the back wall. Or, rather, he stared at where the back wall had been. Now there was a massive hole, creating a lovely view through to the next building, and it’s startled – though not apparently surprised – inhabitants.

Ignoring the stares, the ringing in his ears, and Salaì’s returned shrieking, Ezio slowly looked down to stare at the strange object in his lap. Then, slowly, he looked over at where Leonardo still slumbered. Back at the object. Over to the small cup on the - still standing – table. And back to the object again.

After a moment’s contemplation, Ezio smiled.  
##################  
Two nights later, an apparent act of God struck the vaults of the Borgia family’s home. The massive walls, built to withstand any assault, were marred by a series of gaping holes, providing straight passage to the family’s considerable wealth. 

Witnesses reported hearing a clap of thunder, accompanied by the shaking of the fortress’s walls. By the time the guards reached the vaults there was not a soul in sight, nor a single article of wealth. Indeed there was nothing to be seen, save the impossible holes, and a particularly unflattering picture of Cesare Borgia, carved deep into the floor.

*************************

_If you give a Leonardo a coffee... Ezio will want a hand-held steam-hammer to go with it._


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happened, it was a test, to see whether or not lightning would strike twice.

Rosa wasn’t sure who exactly had been insane enough to first give Leonardo a cup of Antonio’s fiendish elixir – currently referred to as “espressomaccione” – but the results had certainly been… compelling.

And lucrative. She couldn’t forget lucrative. Rosa liked lucrative. _A lot._

Which was why Rosa, and several other thieves ~~she had conscripted with threats of grievous genital harm~~ who had volunteered entirely of their own free will, were currently perched on the rooftops surrounding the inventor’s workshop, baring an immensely precious – and even more dangerous – item.

An _entire_ mug of fresh espressomaccione.

Their mission was both difficult and perilous, but if they succeeded… the _prize_! Yes, the prize was worth the risk, and Rosa was utterly confident they would succeed. 

Probably.

The main problem came from actually getting the drink _into_ the inventor. For, after the last time – currently referred to by the unenlightened citizens as “The Day the Lord Struck the Borgia Vaults From On High With Remarkable Precision and Consistency” – the drink had been banned from Leonardo’s presence and diet.

Still, to be fully accurate, _he_ hadn’t actually sworn it off. He had simply woken up with no memories of receiving, drinking, or being affected by the beverage. Then, having taken a brief moment to have the general details explained, he immediately shuffled Salaì off to comfort him by doing things that – quite honestly – no one wanted to think about Leonardo doing with or to Salaì. 

Since then, Leonardo actually appeared to have forgotten the drink even existed. Which, of course, meant he had never said anything about never drinking it again.

No, it had been _Ezio_ who had stated that they – and, indeed, the _world_ – had gotten lucky that Leonardo’s “hammer-cannon” had been controllable, and that there would be no more testing of fate, lest Very Bad Things happen. As such, it had been concluded, no one was to even _contemplate_ giving Leonardo more of Antonio’s monstrous brew, by order of Ezio Auditore da Firenze and his dear friend Signore Hidden-Blade.

Well, Rosa thought, how fortunate that she was not even remotely afraid of Signore Happy Pants _or_ the largest tool he had at his disposal. Ezio was not the maestro of Rosa, and she’d supply the sweet and – mostly – harmless inventor with a mug of mind-altering stimulates if she damned well pleased.

So there.

Nodding with finality at that thought, Rosa readjusted her grip on the container of precious liquid and signaled her fellow conspirators.

There was a flicker of shadow across the distance as Paolo jumped from his rooftop to the city streets, cautiously making his way to the front entrance of the workshop. Simultaneously, Giuseppe crept up to one of the back room windows, gently cradling a basket in his arms. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Rosa waited for Paolo to reach his mark before signaling again. She caught Giuseppe’s sharp nod, then watched as he slowly tilted his basket, sending several tiny balls of fuzz out underneath the window, before darting back into the shadows.

Though night had long since fallen, the city was hardly quiet and peaceful. Even so, Rosa could hear the mewling of the kittens underneath Leonardo’s window. 

And so, it seemed, could Leonardo himself.

Scarcely had Giuseppe made it back to cover then the window’s shutters flew open, and the wide eyed inventor’s head came into view. He glanced around for a moment, caught sight of the bundle of crying kittens, and loosed a sound not unlike that of an elderly nonna faced with a giggling infant. Moments later the inventor was darting from a back door, and doing his level best to cuddling all the kittens at once.

Satisfied that Leonardo was suitably distracted, Rosa signaled again to Paolo, who immediately rushed up and began rapping insistently at the front door. In a moment the door opened with a jerk, and a very annoyed Salaì appeared. In another moment Salaì’s bewildered squawk was cut off by a bag over the head and a swift blow to the jaw, before Paolo slung the other man over his shoulder with all the care one would afford a sack of smelly and inconvenient laundry.

They may not have particularly liked Leonardo’s obnoxious “assistant,” but they weren’t heartless enough to abandon him in the midst of madness once again.

He’d probably just snap like a twig and start running through the streets being all naked and murderous anyway.

As Paolo lugged the unconscious man away, Rosa double checked that Leonardo was still en-kittened and then, drawing a deep breath and clasping her cargo, signaled to the rest of her collaborators and leapt from her rooftop. 

With the speed and stealth drilled into them by countless training sessions with Antonio – who was, in fact, the maestro of Rosa and everyone else and, therefore, scary enough that his demands _always_ stuck – Rosa and the other three thieves slipped unseen into the back room of the workshop.

Once inside, Piccolo, Allegra, and Bernardo set about emptying the large sacks they were carrying, dispersing their contents about the small room. The contents were… eclectic... to say the least. As they had discovered upon beginning their mission, none of the thieves actually _knew_ what sort of materials might be necessary for the creation of marvelous new weapons and equipment. Thus, after a ~~bout of panicked screaming and flailing~~ calm and logical discussion, they had simply decided to collect as many inventorly-looking things as they could find. Suffice to say their hopes for anything useful were largely banking on Leonardo’s brilliance and the power of the espressomaccione.

And speaking of…

As the other thieves distributed their findings, Rosa slipped over to a small table nestled by the – recently reconstructed – back wall. The simple table supported a number of tools – both familiar and otherwise – as well as a large mug of water. It was the later that held Rosa’s interest.

Quickly, the thief snatched up the mug, poured the water into the soil of a nearby potted plant, and emptied her container of espressomaccione into the now empty mug.

Staring down at the steaming beverage, Rosa felt a sudden twinge of guilt. Leonardo was certainly a wonderful man, and it felt somewhat less than nice to subject him to Antonio’s fiendish creation unawares.

For a moment, her thought flickered back to her own introduction to the drink. She hadn’t been the first poor soul to try it – that dubious honor belong to Three-Toed Marcello or, as he was increasingly becoming known, King of the Pigeons – and, though forewarned, she now maintained that no warning was enough for suitable preparation. After the first consumption of the drink, and the King of the Pigeon’s subsequent performance, she had decided against trying it herself. Then Ugo, Allegra, and Paolo wagered two florins each that she couldn’t down a cup of the stuff. And so, six florins and her pride on the line, Rosa cast aside her better sense had drank the brew.

The following events were somewhat hazy but, no matter what anyone said, Rosa knew for a fact that she had not liberated and donned the pinkest, frilliest gown she could find, dubbed herself “Princess of Shinies,” and pranced about the city stealing from every Borgia soldier that crossed her path while singing love ballads. Nor had she collected a horde of small children, fed them on pilfered sweets, and led them on a raid of every remaining sweet shop in the city, whilst screaming “sweeties for all, fight the power, topple the establishment!” This done, she had _not_ stopped off to throw old eggs at the Borgia’s family home while laughing like a madwoman. …Though, had she done that, she most definitely _did_ manage to land a particularly rotten egg straight into Cesare Borgia’s stupid face. Because she was Rosa damn it, and she was amazing like that. Anyway. She had definitely not skipped her way back to the Thieves’ headquarters and, upon returning, she most _certainly_ had _not_ leapt into Corradin’s lap, snogged him senseless, and then proceeded to rub her face against his very pretty chest like a happy cat whilst whispering Very Naughty Things that made him blush and, therefore, made him even more pretty than usual.

No. No, Rosa was not entirely certain what she _had_ done after drinking the bitter beverage, but she had done none of it. At all. And anyone who wished to argue that point could take it up with her fist.

A sudden cry from outside broke through her train of thought, pulling her back to reality. Swearing under her breath, Rosa wheeled about, darting through a window on Bernardo’s heels and scaling the nearest building. 

Pulling herself up onto the rooftop, she pressed herself flat, just as a kittenless Leonardo reentered his workspace.

Unaware of his watchers, the inventor milled about his workshop for a few moments, not appearing to realize that the… cast-iron corset – _what?_ – he was moving about had not been there previously. Slowly, he made his way to the small worktable, and began fiddling with some contraption on its surface.

And then, at last, he picked up the mug and downed it without a second glance.

Losing a shaky sigh, Rosa collected her fellow thieves – Giuseppe with his basket of distraction-kittens and Paolo with his shoulderful of unconscious Salaì – and left to wait – in safer territory – while the espressomaccione did its fiendish work.

Heavens preserve them all.

##################

Several hours later, Rosa deemed it safe enough to return and check on Leonardo.

Judging by the state of the workshop, Ezio _hadn’t_ been exaggerating for once. Drunken Mario Auditores indeed. The little piece of soul she yet maintained was comforted that they had first removed Salaì; surely the headache, throbbing jaw, and sensation of waking bound-and-gagged in a barroom closet was _infinitely_ more pleasant than having to experience an espressomaccione-fueled Leonardo. Again.

Tiptoeing around the ruins, Rosa made her way through the room, the others trailing behind her. She spared a glance at where Leonardo was spread-eagled over an upended bookshelf, before reaching the miraculously pristine worktable in the back of the room.

An object was resting on the table, next to a pair of modified coral divers’ goggles and the empty Mug of Mendacity. After a moment’s hesitation, Rosa tentatively reached out and picked up the strange object.

It looked, vaguely, like some strange shirt-esque garment with a satchel permanently affixed to the back. There was a corset-like part, which was obviously meant to fit around one’s torso and was decorated by some sort of button, and straps which would fit securely over the shoulders, both of which were made of sturdy and padded leather. The satchel-part, meanwhile, was crafted from metal, and was approximately as long as Rosa’s forearm and wide as her hand. There was some sort of hatch on this part, from which the faint scent of wood could be detected, and two more hatches on either side. 

Humming in confusion, Rosa turned the object over in her hands, studying it closely. The others gathered close, and they spent the next few minutes passing it around and trying to determine what exactly the object was.

Suddenly, Paolo – who was holding it at the moment – pressed the button on the corset. There was a sound like the unsheathing of a sword, and two wing-like objects shot out from the side hatches, nearly skewering Allegra and Giuseppe. And then, there was fire. Lots of fire. Lots of fire, bellowing forth from small funnels along the wings, launching Paolo straight into the air and, consequentially, into the ceiling. 

Seconds later they all stood, slack-jawed, staring at the dazed Paolo lying on the ground. The – no longer flaming – object still clutched in his hands.

As one they raised their heads to look at each other. Then, as one, they turned to look at the unconscious Leonardo. Then, as one, they looked back down at Paolo and the object.

Then, alone, Rosa’s eyes grew wide, and she turned to look at the goggles on the worktable.

Then, alone, Rosa smiled.

##################

Four nights later, God struck the Borgia family again. This time with an angel. An angel that, according to witness statements, descended from On High with wings of pure flame and the laughter of a mad woman.

The angel had flown in through a window of their home, and proceeded to soar through the halls, catching up everything valuable and shiny in sight, a trail of wet-trousered guards sobbing in her wake. She had then taken a moment to pelt a gobsmacked Cesare Borgia with rotten eggs, before flying out another window and back to the Heavens, leaving naught but valuable-less halls, moistened guards, and a smelly Cesare Borgia as proof of her visitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you give a Leonardo a coffee... Rosa will want a jet-pack to go with it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Merry Christmas everyone! Hope your day was amazing as mine was, and that the rest of the holiday season is just as great!_

The third time it happened, it was carefully researched and planned, the benefits deemed to outweigh the costs.

Such careful planning was the way of Niccolo Machiavelli, who had long operated under the belief that – should one wish to maintain simple hobbies like breathing – it was always best to stay aware of every single minute detail of the world in which one lived. And one of the many benefits of being the great Niccolo Machiavelli was possessing the resources and intellect required to do just that. 

It was perfectly understandable, therefore, that when the city first erupted with confused and rapidly escalating accounts of “God’s Rather Pointed And Conspicuous Wrath Against The Borgias” and Machiavelli discovered he had received neither prior warning nor concrete facts about the madness, he was… _perturbed_. (And he considered himself to be well within his rights to feel so; for pity’s sake, the last time he had been this out of the information loop he had been ambushed from above by La Volpe while looking for a midnight snack).

After an emergency meeting with some of his best agents, complete with the standard ~~wittily scathing insults and speculation regarding intellectual capacity and parentage~~ proclamations of absolute trust in their skill and capability, Machiavelli took his first steps towards rectifying that crime against the natural order. And so, agents out scouring the city for information, Niccolo Machiavelli sat back and waited, rather like an intelligent and incredibly handsome spider at the center of its web, to be informed of what perfectly rational and reasonable explanation existed for the madness.

Then his agents returned and reported that Antonio and Leonardo da Vinci were involved.

After abandoning all hope of logic and sanity, and _immediately_ commencing with Imminent Doom And Disaster procedures, Machiavelli concentrated all resources and attention on investigating the recent actions of ~~the mad harbingers of chaos, headache, and _stirrings_~~ his two “allies.”

They began with Salaì – because he was the easiest to find and collect, and most certainly _not_ because anyone _wanted_ to deal with the personification of annoyance that da Vinci kept around for unmentionable and presumably icky reasons. 

Unfortunately, it appeared that Salaì had arisen that morning and decided to be even _more_ annoying and unhelpful than usual. He was already blubbering most pitifully when Machiavelli’s agents deposited him in the interrogation room and removed the standard head-bag, and – remarkably – he seemed to have developed a resistance to the equally standard soothing technique of repetitive backhanding since last Machiavelli spoke with him. Eventually they managed to calm him just enough for the inquisition to proceed, and oh-so politely inquired about da Vinci’s role in the latest spot of chaos.

The tormented screams Salaì produced would haunt Machiavelli for years to come.

It was finally determined that nothing – apart from murderous intent – could be gained from further interrogation of da Vinci’s “assistant,” and after a well-placed and well-deserved boot-to-the-head they deposited the young man in a convenient alleyway.

If nothing else, Machiavelli consoled himself with alongside a very nice bottle of wine, they had confirmed da Vinci’s role as the epicenter of madness.

Which they had already known with all but absolute certainty.

…

Machiavelli reflected that he might have struck Salaì with slightly more repetition and force than was strictly necessary whilst rendering him unconscious.

Machiavelli similarly reflected that he did not feel even a little bit bad about that.

After another bottle or seven more of very nice wine, Machiavelli steeled nerves and loins alike and set his agents on a significantly more dangerous, time consuming, _frustrating_ , and rage and tear inducing task. Hunting down Antonio’s insane minions.

When his agents limped back to him after several days of hunting, finding, chasing, losing, and hunting-finding-etc. some more – every last one bruised, ears ringing with admittedly creative insults, and smelling rather strongly of rotten eggs – Niccolo Machiavelli began to think that a change of tactics was in order.

When all was said and done, Antonio might have been ~~devilishly attractive and sultry~~ obnoxious and not-even-slightly-handsome, and a constant pain in Machiavelli’s well-toned and magnificent posterior, but the man knew well how to train his minions.

…

They had _distraction-kittens_ damn it, and that just wasn’t playing fair!

After a long and intensive ~~group drinking binge~~ planning session, they settled on a new course of action. And so, Andrea decked out in the ponciest clothes they had on hand – which, given that Machiavelli did nothing by halves, was _extremely_ poncy – they set out to catch some thieves. 

Two hours, one casual stroll down a back-alley, and a concealed crossbow-woman with knockout darts and very good aim later, Machiavelli had a very annoyed thief in his custody. It was somewhere between depressingly and hysterically easy. (And yes, in retrospect he probably should have realized from the start that setting a trap would be more effective than straight-forward hunt, but in his own defense he had been _incredibly_ inebriated at the time.)

A thief _finally_ in custody, the second inquisition began.

Under normal circumstances, Machiavelli might have approached an interrogation with Standard Approach A (known to his minions as “The Salaì Special” or “Repetitive Backhand”). If he were feeling particularly nasty, he might have used Standard Approach B (so named because Machiavelli considered himself above using crass terms like “blackmail”). Or, if he felt like a change of pace, Standard Approach C (bald-faced bribery) might be employed. Of course, however, since he was dealing with one of ~~The Devil~~ _Antonio’s_ minions, anything approaching “normal” was right out. He didn’t even need to take a second look at the young thief – a strangely pretty boy whose short blonde hair looked as though it recently lost a fight with a hungry goat – to know that the boy’s innate fear of Antonio was powerful enough to negate the effectiveness of Machiavelli’s favored strategies. (Admittedly, even were the fear of Antonio _not_ present, standard practice likely wouldn’t have worked. Machiavelli had long cursed the fact that Antonio seemed to exclusively recruit thieves that were insane, masochistic, adrenaline-hungry, crimes against of nature, who only appreciated that which they could steal and were literally born without the ability to understand the meaning of the word “shame”).

All this in mind, and still more than a little perturbed by the events of the past few days, Niccolo Machiavelli did something that made even fools and madmen quake in their boots.

He got _creative._

The next three hours were spent in a small room with the thief, seven-and-a-third pounds of goose feathers, a butterfly net, Cavalo’s left sock, and four _particularly_ fiendish instruments – two foot long tin horns that were, apparently, incapable was playing any note but B-flat – which had been invented by Portia in one of her _Moods_. Eventually the thief realized they would not, in fact, allow him to chew off his arms and either escape or bleed to death, and told Machiavelli what he wanted to know.

Were Niccolo Machiavelli the sort of man who possessed a soul, he might have felt bad about using such inhuman methods. As Niccolo Machiavelli was the sort of man who had long since rid himself of silly things like a soul or a conscience, he merely reflected with satisfaction that one could not get results like _that_ with Distraction-Kittens. Even if they were much more adorable and cuddly. But still, Machiavelli got results just fine and didn’t even _need_ help from adorable ~~thief lords~~ kittens to do it.

So there, Antonio. 

And so, as his agents soothed the thief with sedatives usually reserved for farm animals – because let no one ever say they couldn’t be nice if they felt like it – Niccolo Machiavelli sat back to reflect on the information he had received.

In retrospect, he should not have been surprised to learn that Antonio’s diabolical new creation was the catalyst for the sudden influx of chaos and apocalyptic madness. Also in retrospect, it made Ezio Auditore’s crazed ramblings from the recent meeting make _much_ more sense. _“Drink of Madness, The End is nigh, so many tears, so many wet pants, Signore Hidden-Blade will be Displeased”_ indeed.

The reflection took a bit longer than it necessarily should have, as his mind insisted on ignoring his commands and wandering to Dark Places – as it invariably did when Antonio was involved.

Admittedly, this spiral took him to different Dark Places rather than usual – and _of course_ the standard wouldn’t even apply to his own mental distractions by this point. And so, instead of the usual thoughts of glorious triumph, proving his superiority, being vindicated before his allies (and not-so-allies), ~~chocolate sauce,~~ ~~chocolate sauce,~~ ~~_chocolate sauce and manacles on a luxurious bed with silken sheets_~~ vengeance, putting the uppity thief in his place ~~underneath Machiavelli~~ , asserting his innate dominance during brutally violent altercations with ripped clothing and sweat _glistening_ on sculpted muscles while they both lay tangled together on the ground, bodies _heaving_ and _rubbing_ against one another, breath mingling as they moved _closer_ and _closer_ until they _**finally**_ – vengeance! Dark thoughts of vengeance! 

And nothing else.

Anyway.

Instead of the usual thoughts of glorious triumph, revenge, and _nothing else_ , Machiavelli found his mind wandering to the fateful day he first became aware of the well-called “Drink of Madness.”

It involved Antonio. Which… actually meant that the usual thoughts were present in his current mental wandering, only in a slightly confusing and inceptive flashback sort of context.  
Anyway. 

It had been a relatively normal day – reading reports, sending agents on missions, plotting and scheming with a side of planning, writing up intelligence for his allies, dodging multiple assassination attempts from La Volpe, doing a spot of gardening, the usual – when the thief lord appeared, _quite_ suddenly, in ~~the sacred inner sanctum of his lair~~ his study. Were he to be completely accurate – and he was Machiavelli so, yes, he would – the thief had dropped through the ceiling in a hail of plaster and dust, and landed on all fours on Machiavelli’s desk like some demented ceiling-dwelling feline. 

Putano didn’t even have the decency to land on his back or ~~tantalizing~~ ass like a normal human being. No no, he had to be all _graceful_ like. Damn him.

And so it came to be that Machiavelli – who had _not_ screamed like a little girl when the ceiling caved in, thank you _very_ much Portia and don’t you have a broom to ride somewhere? – found himself nose to nose with a dusty, grinning Antonio.

Antonio had said “Well hel- _lo_ there Signore Machiavelli!” He had said “Get off my desk” and was not even slightly tempted to add “and on your knees.” Antonio had grinned – almost as though he knew what Machiavelli was _not_ thinking – and had _very_ slowly cartwheeled off the desk – like some sort of limber acrobat of desire and temptations – so that, for just a moment, he was spread and arched between Machiavelli’s desk and the floor like the not-even-slightly-virgin sacrifice to some brilliant, powerful, and extremely attractive deity of assassination and secrets.

Not that that was how Machiavelli saw it himself, of course. 

And even if he had, he most _certainly_ wouldn’t have enjoyed the sight.

At all.

…

~~Stupid sensual Antonio.~~

Anyway. While Machiavelli had been fighting for breath and trying to calm his racing pulse – both attributed _solely_ to disgust, of course, and _nothing else_ – the not-even-slightly-attractive thief had strutted – in a way that, on someone who was not as unattractive as Antonio, could have been described as positively _salacious_ – his way over to the small sitting area Machiavelli reserved for small meetings with his top agents, most trusted allies, and people who were _not_ Antonio. He then sat down in what he couldn’t possibly but probably did know was Machiavelli’s chair. Or, rather, he _draped_ himself over it in an obscene manner, like some ~~tasty treat of a~~ shameless catamite, and announced that he had a ‘little gift’ for his ‘most favorite and beloved of trustworthy allies.’

Machiavelli responded with a gesture that spoke a thousand words.

Several minutes passed much the same – Antonio offering absurd platitudes and compliments while arching himself over Machiavelli’s chair, and Machiavelli being completely unmoved and unaroused as he threw back gestures and glares – until the great mastermind gave into frustration and crossed to stand before the seating area, if only to make Antonio shut up and leave so he could get _some_ work done without the constant ~~temptation~~ annoyance, and demanded that the thief get on with it already before he showed the fool just how hard Machiavelli could make things for him.

Snickering and grinning like _Machiavelli_ had been the one to say or do something inappropriately sexual, the thief had produced a small canteen.

“We’re calling it _espresiaccelerato_ at this point,” the thief said, “the name’s a work in progress, I’ll admit, but the drink itself is quite… quite an _experience_ , shall we say.” He held the seemingly innocuous container to Machiavelli, smiling so innocently that there _had_ to be a catch, “I’ve played with the recipe a little, and I simply couldn’t think of another person I’d rather have try the outcome more than my _dear_ friend and ally Niccolo.” He held it out a moment longer as Machiavelli continued to stare at him in pointed disbelief, then shrugged with an air of injured innocence and set the container down on a small table. “Well then, I’ve done what I came to do. I shan’t keep you from your important – and, dare I say, fascinating – work any longer, my dear, sweet friend. Until next we meet then!”

Antonio had then shimmied to his feet and selected the route that trapped him between a chair and Machiavelli himself, resulting in a slow squeeze between the two and – subsequently – a prolonged pressing his stupid and by no means pert posterior against Machiavelli’s… ahem. And, of course, the maddening pestilence managed to get caught up on something – what Machiavelli was not sure, it really didn’t look like there was anything underfoot – and briefly stumbled, only managing to stabilize himself by reaching back to grab a handful of Machiavelli’s undeserving backside… somehow. Understandably, therefore, Machiavelli was quite red of face – from _annoyance_ – by the time Antonio got himself free of the sitting area and departed with a – admittedly spectacular – running dive through a nearby window.

Somehow, Machiavelli wasn’t even a little surprised when Benito appeared fifteen seconds later, exclaiming in muted horror that they were now sans the captured thief and a wall.

Sitting down in _his_ chair – and noting with _annoyance_ that it smelled like the thief – in lieu of checking out the window – because the hellfiend would never be so obliging as to actually get himself killed and free Machiavelli from the torment – he settled down to study Antonio’s ‘gift.’ 

On the surface it _seemed_ harmless enough, rather small, and a cursory sniff did not carry the odor of hard liquor or lethal poison. He debated with himself for a while, curiosity warring with common sense. The desire to figure out just what made this beverage so special that Antonio would use it to cover his jailbreak, rather than one of his usual excuses of “I just wanted to see you and get your opinion on this new low-cut tunic and extremely tight pair of trousers of mine,” combined with the knowledge that poisoning was very much not Antonio’s style – though he momentarily entertained the theory that it had actually been La Volpe, cleverly disguised as Antonio through some cosmetic means and attempting to poison him (again), before discounted that theory on the grounds that La Volpe’s backside was nowhere near as shapely and tantalizing as Antonio’s. Not that he made a habit of studying either man’s backside. At all. – finally won him over, and he found himself lifting the canteen to his lips.

Things became… cloudy, afterwards.

The next day, Machiavelli concluded that the drink was a powerful hallucinogenic. There was simply no other explanation for the foggy memories of group hugs, the institution of “No Pants Wednesdays” and “Snuggle Fridays” (which were _not_ going to continue, no matter how much his agents begged), the painting of flowers and happy suns and fluffy bunnies on the walls and ceilings of his lair (the fact that those were _still_ there was a testament to the lasting power of the hallucinogen), the holding of hands and singing of friendship and peace with his agents and several – very confused but not unhappy – captured Templars, or the mass weaving of floral garlands and crowns. 

Espresiaccelerato-fueled hallucinating was _also_ the only possible explanation for the visions of paying Antonio his own through-the-ceiling surprise-visit while au natural – his clothes having been shed hours earlier with the intent of ‘being closer to the blessed Earth!’ – and throwing the thief lord to the floor, straddling him, whispering absolutely _filthy_ promises in his ear… and then passing out. That last was _especially_ only a hallucination, since Niccolo Machiavelli most certainly would _never_ want to have filthy, kinky, _**mindblowingly**_ amazing sexy-times with Antonio. And, even if he had, which he didn’t, he would most certainly have performed _far_ above par and left the thief _wrecked_ , not annoyed, unfulfilled, and prone to shooting Machiavelli glances of long-suffering frustration during every subsequent meeting. So, yes. The well named Drink of Madness was a hallucinogenic. There was no other explanation. And that was what he told himself daily and enforced on his agents with the threat of _Unbridled Creativity._

Though if the mutinous little bastards didn’t stop calling him “Papà Happy Rainbows” he was going to forcibly transfer them to Claudia Auditore’s command and be done with them.

Anyway.

Sighing deeply, Machiavelli sat back, rubbed his eyes tiredly, and realized that – partway through the demented stroll down memory lane – he had come up with a plan that was fiendish even by his standards.

The plan in mind involved betraying the faith a close ally, drugging a typically harmless and just all around _nice_ man with That Which Should Not Have Been Made (again), almost certainly unleashing impossible madness and destruction on a helpless and unprepared world, and was simply the sort of plan that he most definitely _should not do._

But, yeah, he was totally going to do it anyway.

##################

A little over a week later, Niccolo Machiavelli strolled nonchalantly down a quiet street and into Leonardo da Vinci’s workshop.

Upon committing himself to The Plan, he had immediately set things in motion. Agents were summoned, The Plan was outlined, protests were silenced with extreme prejudice, assignments were given, and the agents were dispatched to carry out said assignments. Soon after, their tasks were completed – because Antonio wasn’t the _only_ one who could properly train minions, thank you very much – and a strike team was dispatched to the natural habitat of da Vinci, laden with the carefully selected regents and components that would – with any luck – be turned into devastatingly powerful and accurate firearms, and a canteen of the fiendish espresiaccelerato.

Astonishingly, the latter had been one of the easiest items to procure and, while Machiavelli did not want to slight his agents’ skill, he was fairly certain that The Plan might have been spawned by A Plan of Antonio’s own devising. Because while it was entirely _possible_ that the entirety of the thieves guild had been completely and utterly distracted by Raphael’s charms – the young Spaniard was certainly pretty and seemingly helpless enough to hold the attention of less-degenerated folk than the thieves – long enough for the others to steal some of the drink… Machiavelli couldn’t help but feel it was more _probable_ that he had played his way into Antonio’s dainty hands. The theory at least provided a more comforting reason for Antonio’s previous trip and gift of the foul stuff.

But, regardless of who set things in motion and why, Niccolo Machiavelli would have his weapons and everything would be _awesome._

With this in mind he had sent his agents into the Lair of Brilliance; the first wave, comprised of poncified Andrea and Benito, distracted the genius – Salaì had already been dealt with, thanks to one of Cavalo’s patented “Unconsciousness From Above” maneuvers – while the second wave flitted about the workshop, depositing the selected materials for eventual use. Last, but by no means least, of all had been Portia, who was charged with the extremely dangerous task of handling and the planting the espresiaccelerato. The agents had done their respective tasks perfectly – because Machiavelli’s awesome couldn’t be contained and was, therefore, rather catching – and had slipped away, one by one, leaving da Vinci none the wiser. This done, and agents positioned to make sure no one entered and distracted the inventor – and maybe to make sure nothing got _out_ before Machiavelli wanted it to – they had all settled down to wait.

And so it came to be that Niccolo Machiavelli entered the warzone that had once been Leonardo da Vinci’s workshop, in search of his ~~cruelly ill-gotten gains~~ hard-won prize.

It took him a while to get to the backroom, in no small part because, admittedly, he hadn’t exactly expected to be faced with a goat walking on one of the walls, staring at him with the eyes of the damned. It took him a while to edge past the thing, navigating his way through rubble and miscellaneous debris while keeping an eye on the thing, lest to come for him. (Damn thing nearly _did_ at one point, when he was startled by a basin of water that was, somehow, on _fire_ , but he narrowly managed to fight off the demonic caprid and escape).

Once he actually got to the backroom, however, a new challenge presented itself.

The room was suspiciously tidy – more so than he had ever seen it, in fact – and da Vinci himself was slumbering peacefully from his place on the chandelier, but… but no matter where he looked, Machiavelli could not seem to find anything resembling a firearm.

Anywhere.

Rather, there seemed to be a series of – admittedly fashionable – overcoats on the room’s center table, each made from what appeared to be a mesh of wires, and sporting a strange, glowing circle in the center of the chest.

Machiavelli made his way over to the table – passing a new sculpture that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be made largely from firearm components – and studied the coats more intensely.

They were, as he thought, made of interwoven metal wires, two layers of which enveloped some sort of core, and converged to connect with the glowing circlet in the center. The circlet, made from metal itself and covered with a sheet of glass, glowed from within and cast a blue-white light over its surroundings. Picking one coat up, Machiavelli was moderately surprised at how light and flexible it was, sliding over and through his hands as easily as silk. The coats were, rather obviously, a brilliant and useful sort of new body armor.

How incredibly dull.

Sighing in disappointment, Machiavelli let the coat slip through his fingers and fall back to join its fellows on the table.

And promptly jumped for cover when the light of the circles intensified, a high-pitched hum emanated from them, and electricity arced through the air as some invisible force prevented their contact, leaving the coat he had been examining floating jerkily in the air amidst a halo of fiery sparks.

From a safe distance, Machiavelli stared at the coats in slack-jawed awe.

Then, slowly (but building to a maniacal speed and volume), he began to chuckle.

##################

Two days later, God continued his pointed and showy attack on the Borgias.

A squadron of their soldiers, led by Cesare himself and accompanied by a pair of high-ranking Templars, were making their way through the streets, when they suddenly found themselves faced with a small group of Assassins.

That was not unusual.

What _was_ unusual, however, was the sheer mad brilliance of the Assassins’ mad grins.

The collection of Templars and soldiers had at least enough of a collective self-preservation instinct to be momentarily frozen by the grins, but eventually recovered enough of their murderous intent to press an immediate attack.

Civilian witnesses and surviving soldiers alike would later swear, loudly and with too much passion to not be believed, that every last attack with blade, blunt instrument, fist or foot, head, or firearm was stopped in midair and sent flying with a shower of sparks and high-pitched hum, as though the Lord Himself had placed a protective hand over the Assassins and said: “Not today fratello.”

The Borgia forces kept up the attack for several minutes, until the utter futility of the scenario began to sink in. Slowly they lowered their weapons and stared, most gasping for breath, as the Assassins just stood in place and grinned.

Then, one of the Assassins took a single step forward.

Civilian witnesses would later swear, leading the surviving soldiers to swear the opposite just as loudly, that Borgia soldiers turned as one and – each screaming like a little girl – ran from the Assassins and their divine protection.

In the end, they were chased through the entirety of the city, numbers vacillating as the Assassins either got bored and took them out or picked up a few new Templars and guards to play with. Eventually the surviving forces managed to get back to a friendly garison – though they very nearly lost Cesare to a particularly slippery canal along the way – and sealed themselves in until the next morning, at which point the Assassins – having gotten bored with throwing rotten fruit and devastatingly witty insults – up and left.

More eventually, having taken hours to make their way and flinching at any flicker of shadow or sudden noise, the Templars made it back to their stronghold… which was, by that point, more than a little _on fire_ , and was ringed by a series of newly installed flag-poles that were merrily flying Cesare Borgia’s underclothes.

Even more eventually they managed to get the fire out. But, despite their best efforts, the damage had been done: both to their fortress, and to the dignity of Cesare Borgia and his frilly underthings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you give a Leonardo a coffee... Machiavelli will want personal aether-shielded armor to go with it!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Happy International Fanworks Day everybody!_

The fourth time it happened because La Volpe was bored.

Now, normally there were innumerable safeguards in place to prevent this from happening, as La Volpe being bored was universally recognized as a Very Bad Thing that led to Even Worse Things. Unfortunately, due to certain extenuating circumstances – involving either a certain oblivious genius and a fiendish liquid, the utilization of said oblivious genius and fiendish liquid by certain unscrupulous individuals, the reaction of the general public to the fruits of said oblivious genius’ genius when influenced by said fiendish liquid, or the increasingly incensed flailings of a certain assassin to said all of the above – everyone who _should_ have been watch-dogging the Thief Lord was just a tad… preoccupied. And, thanks to said preoccupation, no one saw any of the signs until things had already spiraled so far out of control that nothing could have been done even if someone _had_ managed to read the writing on the wall.

Though, truth be told, there would’ve been very little anyone could’ve done had the thought occurred to them, wall-writing or no, as La Volpe was widely known and generally acknowledged as an inhuman force of nature.

And so, one fine day, La Volpe got bored, considered the chaos that had been sweeping the city, and decided to get in on that.

He already knew the whole story, of course, having been supplied with the unedited details from one of his weekly ~~meetings~~ tea-parties with Antonio (eventually, anyway; the information first had to be sifted out from the copious, typically icky gushing about ~~Machiavelli~~ He Who Most Certainly _Was_ A Traitorous Prick And Would Be Ended With Extreme Prejudice To The Face And Probably Groin). As a result, he was just about the best prepared for the insanity that had ravaged the city of late, and was able to turn his whole attention to the new development.

He came to the conclusion that the whole thing was kind of neat, then went back to stalking Machiavelli.

Things continued as usual for the next few days, uninfluenced by the surrounding descent into madness. And then the drink of madness entered the mired halls of Machiavelli, and normalcy went screaming off a cliff.

…

…

…

He had seen the man _naked._

And _**cheerful**_.

It was a testament to the sheer majesty that was La Volpe that he lasted all the way until the icky one climbed through a window to try and seduce Antonio before he had to give up and go be sick, lest he succumb to a madness all his own.

Even after his nemesis reappeared – thankfully reclothed – La Volpe hadn’t quite found himself up to resuming his stalkery. The mental wounds were still too fresh for that.

And so, as the city reeled from the latest assault on normalcy and common decency, La Volpe found himself with an unprecedented amount of free time on his hands.

In other words, he was _really_ bored.

It was at this point that thoughts of Antonio’s intriguing beverage resurfaced in his mind. The so called “espressiagitato” had been making its way through their circle of allies, leaving a trail of madness and implausible denial in its wake. Even without Antonio’s own lurid descriptors of its effects, La Volpe had gathered a fair bit of information about the drink. For one thing, he had heard quite a bit from his own ~~subordinates~~ minions, either in regards to their own experiences imbibing it or from their observations of allied peers. He also, obviously, knew about its influence on sweet little da Vinci from Antonio’s tea-parties, Ezio’s rabid flailings, his minions reports, and the ever growing fount of gossip and speculation from every last random citizen on the street. 

And then, of course, there was his own experience with it.

He had returned to his ~~headquarters~~ lair one night after a little ~~visit~~ attempted murder at Machiavelli’s. Preoccupied by analyzing the rather fruitless trip – he was clearly going to have to alter his methods somewhat, if Machiavelli had reached such a point of ~~incredibly appropriate paranoid caution born of experience~~ appalling paranoia born of a clearly guilty conscience that he worn protective gear and carried heavy weaponry when visiting his larder in the dark of night – he almost missed the small mug sitting innocuously on the little table, surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed minions. As the group shuffled about, each offering various coins and trying to convince one of the others to drink, La Volpe stared at the mug, mild curiosity flickering to life. Then, with a little shrug, he picked up the mug and – amidst a clamor of gasps, desperate protestations, and a particularly womanly shriek of horror from Ernesto – downed it.

His minions held their breaths.

He blinked.

And…

He said it was rather tasty and went about his night.

For some strange reason, after that night, his minions seemed to have developed an even greater ~~blind terror~~ perfectly appropriate respect – and blind terror – for him than they had already held.

This pleasant memory in mind, and memories of naked Machiavelli still too fresh to engaging in his usual forms of boredom annihilation, La Volpe sent one of his minions off to obtain some espressiagitato from Antonio and – as soon as he stopped the boy’s hysterics by explaining that it wasn’t for himself – started going through his collection of Random Things for inventoring materials.

A few hours later saw La Volpe dropping down the chimney and into the backroom Leonardo’s workshop, a mug in one hand and a bulging satchel slung over one shoulder, landing in a crouch a few feet away from the inventor.

Leonardo stared at La Volpe.

La Volpe stared at Leonardo.

Salaì shrieked into his gag, squirmed desperately against the ropes in a futile attempt to cover himself, and was summarily ignored.

Then, just as the staring turned the corner and became _really_ awkward, La Volpe held the mug out. “Drink this.”

Leonardo continued to stare at La Volpe. Then, blinking once, he reached out, took the mug, and downed it.

La Volpe nodded in satisfaction and handed over the sack as well.

Salaì probably did something, but Leonardo was the only one who would have cared and he was distracted.

“Well,” La Volpe maintained the mutual stare for a moment longer, then reached over and gave Leonardo a pat on the shoulder. “Have fun.” 

And with that he went back up the chimney, settled down on the roof, and amused himself by watching birds and throwing tiny rocks at passing Templars and guards while he waited for Fun Things to begin.

##################

The next day saw the result of God’s apparent decision to get _creative_ with his punishment of the Borgias. 

A particularly nervous and suitably paranoid collection of Templars and guards – “led” by an even _more_ nervous and especially suitably paranoid Cesare Borgia – were clustered together, making their very slow way across the city when they made the mistake of rounding a street corner and found themselves facing a waking nightmare.

Before them was a small company of thieves, each grinning with a sort of inhuman glee that indicated a thirst for vengeance, nearly carnal appreciation for chaos, missing souls, and deep-seated psychological trauma. 

Each one was sitting astride some sort of bipedal creature, each distinctly reptilian in appearance, approximately six feet in height and ten feet long from the snout to the tip of their tails, armed with cruel maws filled with wicked fangs and decidedly vicious looking hooked claws on their small arms and large feet, and forged from metal and twisted fever dreams. 

And there, resting in their midst like a Mephistophelian specter, was the fiend known as La Volpe, sitting astride an entirely different bipedal metallic reptilian nightmare that, dwarfing its mechanical minions by about ten feet, would have sent a lance of blind terror through even the most steeled of bowels despite its strangely big head and adorably tiny arms.

In retrospect, the apparently-not-paranoid- _enough_ group probably should have at least noticed the unusual silence of the area, realized that something was _horribly_ wrong, and not walked straight into the incredibly terrifying and rather obvious ambush.

For a long moment the square was perfectly still – the Templar forces frozen in shocked terror and the Thieves savoring their shocked terror.

Then Cesare, already a bit cracked from the sheer amount of Very Bad Things that had happened to him lately, let out a tiny squeaking sob.

As though that cry was some pitiless cue, the grin on La Volpe’s face grew in size and intensity, ensuring that all those who survived the day would never again know peace. Then, raising his arms to the heavens, the Thief Lord let loose a peal of diabolical laughter. _**“I’m on a madre-cazzo TYRANNOSAURUS REX!”**_

And so it came to be that Cesare Borgia and his men ran like hell through the city, screaming like tiny girls as they tried with varying degrees of success to stay ahead of their pursuers and – consequentially – uneaten by a horde of mechanical prehistoric reptiles, hounded all the way by laughter born beyond the gates of hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you give a Leonardo a coffee... La Volpe will want a horde of mechanical dinosaur steeds to go with it._


End file.
